


glacier freeze

by greyskygirl



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris will admit that most problems can't be solved with Gatorade and cuddling, but maybe this one can. Really, he just needs Seb to be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	glacier freeze

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [sidnihoudini's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini) beautiful bit of Evanstan sickfic, which you can (and absolutely should) [read here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7093318/chapters/18006028). 
> 
> I loved it, and I wanted more of it. And that's how this happened.

Most of Chris’s unpleasant wake-ups are due to unfairly early call times, but jolting into consciousness to the sound of Seb puking over the side of the bed is a new low. The clock says 1:03 a.m.

He knocks the lamp over when he tries to turn it on, swearing as he rights it and manages to fumble it on. Seb’s hanging off the mattress, heaving onto the hardwood floor, and for a second, Chris is Steve Rogers, frozen in horror and indecision instead of ice. 

Then he’s scooting across the bed to put a tentative hand on Seb’s back. Seb’s still retching, his whole body contorting as he gags. The noise is maybe worse than the visual (and Chris is trying to convince himself this is special effects, instead of an awful mess he’s going to have to clean up) -- it sounds like Seb’s drowning, but he gasps a breath and tries to reassure Chris.

“I’m okay.”

He’s not, and they both know it, but Chris goes with it, rubbing his back gently until the storm passes, leaving Seb sweating and exhausted in Chris’s arms.

When he gently slides back to let Seb flop onto the mattress, Seb makes a sad, questioning noise.

“Clean up,” Chris says briefly, gesturing at the floor before squeezing Seb’s shoulder and rolling out of bed. 

***

Chris hurries back into the room with his supplies and shuts the door behind him so Dodger isn’t tempted to help. Seb’s curled on his side, and the fact that his eyes are closed does nothing to lessen how positively miserable he looks. Chris bites his lip, torn between cleaning and comfort before deciding to let Seb rest while he can. 

He’s also brought a large bowl -- one sadly reminiscent of days spent on the couch as a kid, home with the flu and determined to at least get some daytime cartoon-watching out of the experience. He sets it carefully on the floor and crouches to begin cleaning. It takes a frighteningly thick wad of paper towels to mop up the mess, and Chris tries not to breathe until he’s shoved everything into the garbage bag. 

He debates briefly -- leave the bag, in case it’s needed again? -- and leaves the room once more to dispose of everything. Hopefully the bowl will be enough. Hopefully Seb won’t even need the bowl. 

But when he opens the door again, the bowl’s already serving its purpose as Seb retches, hands fisted in the comforter as he leans over the bed. Chris pauses momentarily, and then he’s climbing onto the bed, putting his chest at Seb’s back. When Seb’s done gagging, he falls back, and Chris’s weight is there to support him.

“You’re not all right,” he says, wiping the damp hair off Seb’s brow. 

Seb sighs and leans into him a little more. “I hate being sick.”

Chris hates it, too -- hates to see those eyes dull with pain and be so helpless. All he can do is be there for whatever Seb needs, all the while physically willing Seb to feel better. Chris’d gladly be the one hanging over the bed if it meant Seb was okay. But until that’s possible, he’ll just let Seb slump against him and offer whatever comfort he can.

At least until Seb groans and pushes feebly against him. “Hot.”

Chris withdraws instantly, scooting to the opposite edge of the bed so Seb can take as much space as he needs, then deciding he can just camp in the oversized chair by the window so he won’t chance disturbing Seb. He slides his legs off the bed, but before he can stand, he feels Seb tug at his shirt.

He turns back instantly. “Seb? I’m gonna be in the chair. You need something? Ice chips?” They don’t even have any fuckin’ Gatorade, that’s how ill-prepared he is to take care of Seb.

Seb’s face is mashed into the pillowcase -- he’s facing Chris, and it seems like maybe he’d want to lean in the direction of the bowl, which, oh right, Chris needs to empty -- but he shakes his head. 

“Don’ go.”

Chris exhales, leaning forward to drop a quick kiss on the hand still clutching his shirt. “Wouldn’t leave you.”  _ Not ever, _ he thinks, before adding, “I’ve gotta empty the bowl, I’m coming right back.”

Seb’s dozing fitfully, his face still pale and sweaty, when Chris climbs carefully back into bed. Seb sighs slightly and shifts in Chris’s direction, hand reaching across the sheet until his fingers are brushing Chris’s forearm. That seems to settle him, and Chris’s own eyes close.

They sleep.

They sleep until Chris wakes to fumble for the light once more because Seb’s gagging and gasping for breath. He rests a hand between Seb’s shoulder blades and feels Seb’s body tremble as he heaves.

“Okay, okay,” he whispers, feeling stupid and utterly useless. “Get it out. I’ve got you.”

Seb collapses against the mattress, spent and shaking, and the chalky pallor of his skin sends Chris into action, shoving himself off the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, grabbing the first shirt he sees and tugging his shoes on quickly. “Running to the store to get you some stuff, okay?”

Seb exhales, cracks an eye open. “Yeah. But I’m okay, Chris, really.”

“Yeah, never better,” Chris retorts, patting his sweats in search of his wallet, which is-- there, on the edge of the nightstand. He shoves it into a pocket and grabs a hat. He doesn’t give a fuck if anyone sees him like this, at ass o’clock in the morning, but he doesn’t want to be delayed getting back to Seb.

He needs to stop fretting and start helping.

***

At the corner store closest to his house, he grabs five different flavors of Gatorade -- shit, another failing, he doesn’t even know Seb’s favorite -- and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He debates saltines and some ginger chews, then curses himself because he’s taking  _ too fucking long _ and hurries to check out.

He gets back around six, shucking his hoodie as he barrels into the room. Four bottles of Gatorade are now chilling in the fridge, and the other one’s already open in his hand. He picked lemon-lime to try first -- boring as it is, it just kind of seems like a good starting place.

Plus, if it ends up in the bowl, lemon-lime’s gonna be less distressing to clean up than glacier freeze.

Seb’d been sleeping, but Chris’s hurried entrance put an end to that. He’s awake now, watching with tired eyes as Chris crosses the room and puts the bottle in his hand. He sighs, pushing himself slightly up on the pillow to take a small drink, then another.

Chris kicks off his shoes and climbs back into bed while Seb’s nursing the Gatorade.  It’s weird to be wearing sweats in bed -- he’s used to Seb’s bare skin sliding all over his, all through the night -- but it doesn’t really feel like the time to be rubbing his dick on Seb.

“I got this, too,” Chris says, presenting the Pepto. Seb groans and shakes his head, and Chris nudges his shoulder very softly. “C’mon, it might help.”

And it might not. Chris shudders as Seb takes a hesitant swig from the bottle, sense memory easily reminding him of the chalky, unnatural taste Seb’s experiencing. 

Seb swallows the Pepto and makes a face, then pushes himself up abruptly. Chris flails his way upright, ready to lunge over Seb to grab the bowl, but Seb’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He glances back at Chris, tries for a tired smile. 

“I’ve gotta piss.”

Seb stands and promptly sways on his feet, and Chris is out of bed in the next second, feet slipping on the floor as he hurries to Seb’s side to throw an arm around his waist.

“Hey, take it easy, let me help.”

Seb sighs and leans his head into Chris’s shoulder. “I mention I hate being sick?”

He helps Seb into the bathroom and backs out, swinging the door mostly shut. 

He’s back through in the next instant when the sound he hears is more puking instead of Seb relieving himself. Seb’s on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, hands clutching the seat, and okay, Chris tries to keep his place pretty clean, but he flinches for a second before crouching at Seb’s side.

He’s getting pretty damn good at these soothing back rubs by now. It’d just be nice to not need the skill, at least not in this particular situation. Touching Seb’s no hardship; seeing Seb so sick is another story.

Seb gags once more, then draws the back of his hand across his mouth. He slides fully onto the floor, looking incapable of moving, and Chris’s heart hurts a little to see it. Seb’s so vibrant, the brightest thing in all Chris’s days. Seeing him pale, slumped on cold bathroom tile sends every protective instinct Chris has -- and he has a lot of them -- into overdrive. 

Gently, he slides his arms around Seb’s chest and pulls him up, quickly flipping the toilet lid down and easing Seb onto it. He turns to grab a washcloth from the closet and dampens it with cool water, pressing it lightly to the back of Seb’s neck.

“Feels good,” Seb says quietly, leaning his head against Chris’s thigh. Chris’s free hand finds Seb’s, and he links their fingers, relishing any contact. It might not comfort Seb right now, sick as he is, but even this slight touch is a sweet balm for Chris’s worry.

They stay like that for a minute, and then Chris squeezes Seb’s hand. “Bed?”

Seb nods against his leg, gripping the edge of the sink to help pull himself up, but fuck that.

Chris has maybe never been more grateful for Captain America’s muscles than when he’s able to scoop Seb up into his arms and carry him back to bed, carefully turning sideways to fit them both through the doorway.

“Not a princess,” Seb grumbles as Chris puts him down gingerly, but there’s no heat in it, and his weary eyes are fond as he settles against his pillow. He glances at the bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand and makes a face, but his hand starts to reach for it.

“Wanna try a different flavor?” Chris asks quickly, forcing down the blush that threatens when Seb eyes him knowingly, completely familiar with Chris’s tendency to overcare. “Four, okay? I bought four other flavors.”

“The blue one?”

Should’ve known. Chris grins, feeling slightly less like a failure and hurries to the kitchen. When he comes back, bottle of glacier freeze in hand, Dodger’s preparing to leap onto the bed, tail wagging wildly. In his usual spot. Directly on top of Seb’s stomach.

“NO!” Chris hollers, using the stern, I-mean-business tone he’d learned in puppy obedience classes and has rarely needed since. Dodger whines, paws skidding on the hardwood as he turns tail and runs, and Seb bolts upright, wide-eyed.

“Shit, sorry, sorry. I left the door open.” Chris points at the furry retreating figure. “Think Dodger wanted to give you some TLC.” 

Seb winces, hands reflexively covering his tender belly. “Maybe later.”

Chris shuts the door firmly and pads over to hand Seb the Gatorade. “Maybe not-found-in-nature blue will stay down.”

Seb takes a tentative sip, just enough to wet his throat, and snarks weakly, “Glaciers are soothing.”

“We’ll see if I’m cleaning a soothing glacier out of that bowl in a few minutes,” Chris says, and leans down to boop a kiss onto Seb’s nose, which wrinkles in response.

Chris slides back under the covers, turns off the light and waits for Seb to situate himself before curling up on his side to face him, then swearing lightly as he remembers they’ve got breakfast plans to cancel. After watching Seb do his damnedest to rid his stomach of everything inside it, food’s kind of the last thing on Chris’s mind.

Sleep, though …

***

It’s fully bright outside when Chris wakes up again. He stretches reflexively, and Seb’s head turns toward him.

“Hey,” Chris says softly, sliding over to spoon him, fitting his body into this familiar space, this home he’s found in Seb, and instantly feeling a little of his tension melt away. The closeness is the purest form of comfort he knows. He brings a hand up to rest on Seb’s hip. “Gonna puke on me?”

“Probably.” Seb sighs, snuggles back into him. 

“‘Kay.” Chris brushes a kiss over Seb’s nape, inhaling the smell of sickness -- sweat and puke instead of Seb’s usual woodsy spice. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the feel of Seb in his arms and lets himself drift into sleep. 

***

The next time Chris sees the clock, it’s after noon.  Seb’s rolled over now, face plastered against Chris’s chest, and Chris’s arm is around him. 

The bedroom’s been a puke-free zone for almost three hours now, and Chris is loathe to chance his luck by disturbing this fragile peace, but now he’s the one who needs the bathroom. As carefully as possible, he slides his arm out from under Seb’s back, but stealth is a costume he wore and not a maneuver he can pull off, so he’s really not surprised when Seb cracks an eye open and looks blearily at him. 

“Be right back,” Chris says, pointing at the bathroom. Seb mumbles something that sounds like agreement, and then he dozes off.

Chris climbs out of bed -- it seems like that’s all he’s done today -- and stretches, rolling his shoulders. The worry over Seb is slowly leaching out of his body, now that Seb’s maybe on the mend, and if Chris happened to jinx things with that thought, well, there’re still three bottles of Gatorade.

Maybe rain berry next. He doesn’t want to deploy fruit punch unless things get dire.

He takes a much-needed leak, washes his hands and splashes some water on his face, and then the door’s swinging open. Seb’s still way too pale, but he looks steadier on his feet.

“I need a shower,” he tells Chris plaintively.

“Yeah,” Chris agrees, stepping forward to run a teasing hand through the greasy hair on the back of Seb’s head. “Not exactly red-carpet ready.”

“Fuck you,” Seb says and shoots him a small grin. He loosens the drawstring of his sleep pants and steps out of them, and when they’re a puddle of cotton at his feet, Chris tries to remind himself -- and his body -- that Seb’s sick. He needs rest. He needs soup. He needs Chris to act on exactly zero of the thoughts he’s having.

Down, boy. Maybe Dodger should come chastise him now -- Chris feels like a puppy panting at Seb’s feet, and his mind instantly supplies a dozen bone-related jokes that aren’t helping his situation. 

Seb steps toward him, heading for the shower, and Chris presses his back against the sink to let him by. He’s being respectful. He’s being patient. And he’s being tortured by a beautiful naked man, because Seb’s sliding an arm around his waist and leaning into him, and the press of Seb’s too-hot skin against his own is enough. Seb has a fever; Chris is burning.

He always wants Seb, and the urge now is magnified by the need to be sure Seb’s okay. Comfort and claim and care and closeness -- he wants all of it. Since his dick doesn’t actually have healing powers, though, he needs to back the fuck off.

He bites his lip, wills himself calm and returns the embrace, burying his face in Seb’s neck.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Seb murmurs, stepping back. Chris’s hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles gone white in his effort to not haul Seb back into his arms. He’s fine. He’s  _ fine. _ He’s going to let Seb have his shower like a normal person.

That’s his plan, and he feels good about it, until Seb starts the water and looks over his shoulder with an expression that promises things. Chris wants any of those things, all of those things. He should be embarrassed at the noise that escapes him -- did he just fucking  _ whimper? --  _ but pride’s got no place here, especially not if it’s pity that’s going to get him into that shower with Seb.

“You coming?”

Four minutes later, with Seb’s hand lazily, expertly stroking Chris as he groans and jerks and shouts Seb’s name, he is indeed. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) You'll find me screaming about Seb, his roles and his life-ruining thickness. It's a good time.


End file.
